Slowly and Carefully
by Lamport
Summary: They've been married for three weeks. In that time she has gradually begun to trust him again. One night, while playing Chess with Paul, Tommy perched on his lap, he catches her staring at him. When their eyes met, she smiled.


**This started as a drabble, and ended up being over 3000 words. Oops! I wanted to explore a bit more of the married life between Richard and Julia. While I LOVE hollygofightly's fic about their wedding night, I had a different canon going through my head. This goes out to all the lovely ladies (and gentlemen?) of the Tumblr Speakeasy who I admire from afar – particularly worn_whorehouse_stairs, who is truly inspiring. Hope you like it. Please review – it motivates me to continue writing.**

**Spoilers up until White Horse Pike.**

The kitchen manager at the club, Mr. Samuel, won't let anyone leave until the dishes are stacked and spotless, the cook top shining, and the pantry inventory checked at least twice. Richard has spent more than a few hours polishing silverware and coffee pots in the wee hours of the morning until he can see his distorted face reflected back. The other fellas cuss under their breaths at the extra work, but Richard doesn't mind. He's grateful to be employed anywhere, and convinced that if he hadn't talked to Mr. Thompson, he'd still be looking for a job.

He's used to the looks of revulsion from the wait staff, who haven't spared him a second glance since the first week. Now they just stop by the sink and toss dishes in the soapy water and get on with it. Once, one of the chorus girls, who was late for the eight o'clock show, came rushing through the kitchen door and screamed bloody murder at the sight of him. gave her a shake and a slap.

"Ain't no reason for all this here noise. You scarin the customers. That ain't what I pay you fo." When she hurried past him to change into her costume, Chalky shrugged an apology and lit a cigar. 

Sometimes working here gets him missing Jimmy, or at the very least, the sweaty wad of cash he used to produce as if by magic after only a minute's work. On dinner breaks he takes his plate out to the alley to eat in the shadows. From the darkness he can see the men sitting around on empty orange crates, smoking and laughing. For a split second he feels like he's back in the trenches, wolfing down his rations before heading out to the next blind. He doesn't need anyone to tell him that he's not welcome in that circle, but the fellas drive the point home one night when they trip him on his way outside. His food is ground into the gravel by their boots, and he goes home hungry. He can't risk losing this job –not now anyway – so he clenches his fists and ignores them. 

Had it been any other time in his life he might have resented this job. He can't help but wonder what Father would think of his varsity champion son chopping cabbage and bending over a sink until his back aches. Then again, Father was the one to teach him that any job done honestly and with integrity was honourable.

Despite the job, nothing can deny that he is the happiest and most content he's been in years. Even with the stress of the court decision looming, he can't help but be grateful for what he has. At the end of the night he walks home in the dark and can barely contain the grin that spreads across the right side of his face. It's painful, but completely involuntary. He can't help it. It usually starts the moment he puts a hand in his pocket and feels the cool metal of his wedding ring. In the hours he spends at work he all but forgets that he is a husband who gets to go home to a wife. He reverently holds the band up to the streetlight with his thumb and forefinger before sliding it carefully on.

They've been married for three weeks. In that time she has gradually begun to trust him again. One night, while playing Chess with Paul, Tommy perched on his lap, he catches her staring at him. When their eyes met, she smiled.

At the courthouse on their wedding day she made no complaint when he took her hand to calm her. She even kissed him chastely in front of the county clerk who declared them husband and wife.

On their wedding night they sat downstairs together sipping red wine. It stained her lips an alluring shade of purple and brought a flush to her cheeks. After what felt like an age of silence after Tommy and Paul went upstairs to sleep, Julia explained politely that she needed time to get used to the idea of sharing a bed with him. They were not the same people who made love on the beach the year before. He understood, and wished her goodnight before retreating to the back porch to grab the bedding for the couch. While he ached to be with her again, he respected her wishes, knowing that there was still hope for him to earn her forgiveness, even if it took another year.

Since that night she has performed the daily duties of a devoted wife. She cooks his dinner (he washes the dishes with Tommy), cleans his clothes (he hangs them on the line for her), and kisses him goodbye before he leaves for work. It's the best and worst time of the day. 

Most nights, after work, he comes home to a comforting silence. The events of the evening are laid out in the house like a museum exhibit. He sees Julia's latest book, face down on the window seat, Tommy's crayons left out on the dining room table, Paul's empty bottle in the kitchen. Of course, like any house, it's never completely silent. From the couch he can hear the steady tick of the clock in the front hall, and the familiar creak of the third step up from the landing – signalling the start of a new day.

Each night when he returns home he makes a point of opening each bedroom door a crack to check that they are all safe and sleeping. Sometimes he finds Tommy in Julia's bed, cuddled up to her in a mess of cowboy blankets that he dragged there from his own room. Some nights Paul is still up, draining another glass of whiskey at the kitchen table. He always pours Richard a glass, even though he never touches it. 

Tonight, he is surprised to see a light glowing from the sitting room window. The air is warm and full of the scent of garden flowers and the ocean. As he walks up the familiar concrete pathway he can hear the telephone wires buzzing overhead. It reminds him of the cicadas back home. He used to capture them in jars with Emma, delighting in the game of finding the largest one. 

He is somewhat alarmed to find the porch door unlocked and the front door wide open. Instinct takes over and he reaches inside his jacket for his gun, only it isn't there. All of his guns are safely stowed in the garage at Julia's insistence. The dining room is dark and empty, but for a small box on the table he doesn't recognize. The clock on the wall shows that it's nearly two o'clock. He silently moves to the arched doorway of the sitting room. Beside the light of the lamp on the side table, Mrs. Harrow is curled up in an armchair. 

Her hair is down – he hardly ever sees it like this. Golden waves float around her bare shoulders. The toes of one of her feet touch the floor. She's wearing a thin cotton nightgown that he saw once before on the night he brought Tommy here. Her face is all concentration, eyes keenly focused on the sewing in her hands. It looks like a pair of Tommy's pants. Her face is free of makeup, and he knows her pearls must be safely stowed away upstairs in her dressing table, but his heart swells when he sees that the thin gold band still encircles her finger. She must have been sleeping with it.

"What are you doing?"

She jumps at the sound of his voice and pricks her finger in the process. 

"Jesus Christ! You scared me," she admonishes, putting the injured digit in her mouth. He comes into the room and kneels beside her, taking her hand gently to examine the damage.

"I'm sorry... The door was open," he awkwardly explains.

She sighs, takes back her hand and brushes past him to go sit on the window seat. The sewing falls to the floor.

"I opened it to try and get some air in here. It's so stifling upstairs, I couldn't sleep. Thought I'd try and get some work done." He nods slightly and picks up the child size trousers from the floor, handing them to her.

"I have to let down the hem again -he's growing so fast," she says with a sad smile. She takes a moment to take in the state of him.

"You look tired. How was your shift?" She asks, patting her hand on the seat beside her, and turning her attention back to the fabric in her hands. She opens the window and closes her eyes – face turned to the warm breeze.

"Alright. Busy. How was yours?"

"Oh, the usual. Condescending floor manager, impossible customers; but I did make an extra three dollars commission on a fur coat."

"Mm...that's wonderful," he praises. She graces him with a smile.

He loves to see her smile, but unfortunately she's been under so much stress lately that her smiles don't come often enough. It's like she's been guarding them ever since he came back, doling out one at a time when he does something to please her. It's more than he could have hoped for given the circumstances.

As he watches her talk about her day he can't help but observe the smooth, pale skin of her arms. They looks soft. He can almost recall how they felt under the caress of his fingers as she fell asleep with him under the boardwalk.

"... Did you see the mail when you came in? We got another bill from the lawyer's office," she sighs and raises her eyebrows. "Guess where my commission is going?"

"We'll pay it. Mm I'll ask for another shift."

She glances at him, looks worried for a moment.

"No, you're working too much as it is; looking after Tommy all day - working all night." Her obvious concern gives him hope. He pulls her hands away from her sewing and holds them still.

"It doesn't matter. I'll do what I have to...to provide for the family."

Another smile. She pulls away again, he tries not to feel hurt. Her face lights up for a moment, like she's withholding a secret.

"I almost forgot! We got a wedding present from your sister." She hurries to the darkened dining room, nightgown floating around her body, and returns to the window seat with a small box. She hands it to him shyly, holding a letter in her hands.

"I hope you don't mind, but I opened it without you. It was addressed to me," she shows him the brown packing paper with the name "Mrs. Julia Harrow" in Emma's plain hand.

Inside the box are a set of silver candlesticks that he recognizes instantly. They were a gift that Father bought for Mother when he and Emma were born. A candle for each baby. He smiles, and turns them over in his hands. He thought she had sold them long ago.

"Aren't they beautiful? She says baby Jerry is getting his teeth. The farm still hasn't sold, but she's hoping that when it does she can send you your share. I don't know how I feel about taking money from her, but it would be helpful, wouldn't it? Oh, and the barn burnt down last week. Apparently there was a really bad storm and lightning set the roof on fire."

He chokes on his saliva and coughs loudly while Julia fetches a glass of water and a straw. He takes a few sips and waves off her concern. When he catches his breath he hands the candlesticks back to her. She stands and places them carefully on the mantel, running her finger along the base of each. They haven't received many presents, but then again most people don't know about their marriage. There wasn't the time or money for a proper announcement.

"She says she's pregnant again," she whispers, half to herself. "How wonderful to be blessed like that." He's not sure that Emma would agree, but he keeps this thought to himself. For a moment Julia is lost in a place inside of herself, and Richard can only stare at her eyes and wonder what's making her look so sad. The whites of her eyes start to look glassy a split second before she turns to leave the room, and switches the lamp off, leaving him in the dark.

"Goodnight, Richard."

Any other night he would have let her walk out of the room, but tonight, in the dim light from the street outside, he can't. He finds his voice, just before she takes the first step on the stairs.

"Mm. Wait. Come here."

She turns slowly, head down, and he can see how exhausted she is all of a sudden. Before he notices he's doing it, his hands are caressing her bare arms and pulling her close to his body. She stiffens for a moment before sagging against him and he realizes, with no small amount of alarm, that she's quietly crying. He pulls her into the room and across his lap on the window seat.

Her hands bunch up in his shirts and her face is buried in the crook of his neck while he waits for her to stop, waits for her to pull away, waits for her to laugh it off. It seems he's always waiting for her to show him what to do. As she cries, he thinks about all she has been through this past year; all the turmoil he's brought to her life. She is so strong all the time, so smart and witty, so beautiful. He doesn't deserve to call her his wife, even if it was her idea.

At that moment a strange thing happens. He thinks of Father in the kitchen holding Mother, and whispering comfort to her after the last baby died before it was born.

"Everything will be okay... I love you." He's felt it since the first time she shook his hand, since she danced with him at the legion, since she pulled him under the boardwalk, but he's never said it out loud until now. He isn't nervous to tell her this (his hands aren't shaking and his lips aren't twitching), but more sure than he's ever been about anything he's ever said to her before.

She pulls her head up, face blotchy from crying, and stares at him. It's dark and warm in the room, but a breeze from the window blows the tendrils of hair from her face.  
"I love you too," she breathes. He watches her closely as he reaches for the hooks on his ears and removes his mask before leaning in to kiss her. She tastes of warm salt, and smells like the lilac flowers she puts on her dresser. It's a heady combination that sends him reeling, and makes him instantly aware of his hardness pressing against the soft flesh of her thighs.

He presses his luck by running a hand from her calf, up under the lace hem of her nightgown to the dip behind her knee. She gasps in his mouth, and shifts in his lap, causing unintentional friction that nearly finishes him. He tries to convey all of his thought into his touch; Trust me.

Her hands make quick work of his shirt buttons, and before he knows it, her nightgown is bunched under his sweaty hands at her hips. She moves off of him long enough to pull it over her head, hair falling everywhere. Her shape is mesmerizing. He runs his thumbs along her hip bones, then around her rib cage, lifting her onto his lap, knees on either side of his body. While he mouths her breasts she reaches between them to free him from the restriction of his trousers. He is impatient to be inside her, and flips her on her back against the cushion of the window seat.

Suddenly she yelps loudly and jumps from the seat, hands flying to her backside. He is completely bewildered, until he sees the glint of the sewing needle protruding from her flesh. Deftly, he pulls it out as she curses under her breath. She loses her balance and nearly knocks the table lamp on the floor. He catches her and they collapse together in a heap on the rug.

From upstairs they hear a thump, then a door opening.

"What's all that racket?"

"It's nothing, dad! Go back to sleep!" She hollers back.

She rubs her injured buttocks slowly and grimaces before taking stock of the situation. She is naked in the sitting room with her half-naked husband underneath her holding the offending needle in one hand and her nightgown in the other.

He watches, fascinated, as her grimace turns into a grin, and then they're laughing on the floor like a pair of fools. She holds her stomach and mouth trying to suppress her giggles, but it doesn't work. She snorts, which makes them laugh harder. His face hurts, and he can't catch his breath. When the laughter subsides she kisses his mouth with a smile.

"You know, you reek of cabbage," she teases, standing up and pulling him along with her. He'd be offended and offer to bathe were it not for the mischief in her eyes and her hands on his stomach. "I think one night we need to get out of here and go for a swim," she whispers in his ear, causing him to shiver despite the heat. "... But until then, Mr. Harrow, why don't we go to bed?"

"Mm... Only if you promise. To keep your sewing downstairs." She rewards him with a smirk, and pulls her nightgown back over her head. Hand in hand they take the stairs to the last room on the right.


End file.
